As I walk along the dirty streets of my neighbourhood, I realise that what gives “abroad” its feel is not necessarily the weather. I’ve visited countries as hot and humid as Nigeria. What sets them apart is cleanliness, order, quality, and standards.

Abroad, the streets stay clean, well-built, and well-maintained. Neighbours don’t impose different styles of public sidewalks near their homes. Clearly marked pedestrian areas guide people safely. Houses, though less expensively built, still radiate beauty, quality, and craftsmanship. Public facilities work reliably and still please the eye. There’s no need to sacrifice form for function. Public spaces show that society places a premium on human beings and human lives.

I’m beginning to understand some of the prayers we say in Nigeria. We doubt justice, so we pray for favour before meeting civil servants. We pray for deliverance when we fall into the hands of civil servants.

We doubt the accuracy of diagnoses or the quality of treatment in hospitals, so we pray for wisdom for our doctors and for healing from our sicknesses.

People in Nigeria seem under siege. A deep poverty runs through our interactions and existence; a near-complete embrace of mediocrity and the substandard. Everything we accomplish or strive to do suffers an automatic downgrade because of our country’s image. We struggle to find excellence-minded collaborators or to gain the appreciation of our target market. We must dumb down and be “realistic” or risk being consumed.

We live beneath our potential in Nigeria. There is no glory here. Everyone who shines stands as an exception—one who escaped, one whom serendipity blessed, one who survived.

The saving grace in Nigeria, the anchors that keep people sane, are family, faith, and the power or money to fight the crushing waves of mediocrity.

diocrity. Even then, you pay in multiples of what those in other climes spend for the same conveniences.

For more, Why I Gave up on Nigeria.